13

Adelaide wakes the next morning, surprised at how many hours she has slept. She is even more surprised to find River and Little Bird asleep in her bed. She hesitates to move for fear of waking them and breaking the spell, as if this were merely a mirage, a trick of her hopeful mind.

Adelaide is hungry, but the cabin is barren.

She wasn’t supposed to be here, but she is, and so are the children, and as much as Adelaide would like to stay in bed all morning, admiring her new family, there is something she must do. And she should do it soon, while she’s still half asleep.

Before she changes her mind.

They’ve gone a full day without food. Her shelves are empty, the forest is desolate, the river is frozen, and Adelaide doesn’t know when her daughter will arrive with supplies. Or if she will arrive at all.

Adelaide opens a kitchen drawer and withdraws a knife as though she is simply preparing to slice some vegetables. Her hands tremble as she takes a washcloth from the hook and folds it into a square beside the cutting board. Sunlight floods through the small window, warming her skin, but she can’t bring herself to look outside. Not this morning. Her stomach lurches, and bile fills her throat.

There is no food, no vegetables, no fish.

But there are chickens.

Adelaide slips into her coat and steadies herself against the door. Her hand lingers on the knob, but she forces herself to turn it and step into the snow.

There is nothing left to do. She has nothing else to give them.

Adelaide flexes her fingers as she stomps across the icy ground. She is a farmer—a farmer, goddammit—and this is what farmers do. The girls stopped laying years ago, and she should never have kept the rooster. Roosters are for meat. Hens are for eggs, then meat. That’s it. Soil is tilled. Vegetables are grown. Chickens are meat. Meat.

She’s done this before. Dozens of times. No different now. Adelaide pictures the steps in her mind. Scald, defeather, remove feet and head, discard innards, debone the meat, grease the skillet. Her mouth should be watering, but it’s not.

All is serene on her land this morning, a stark contrast to her heart.

“Henry,” she calls out, but feels guilty using their names. “Chickens!”

At the sound of her voice, Henry and Zelda practically fall down the ladder and tumble onto the ground. Moffit emerges behind, slower than the others.

Adelaide walks to the pile of firewood and sits on one of the stumps. The chickens careen toward her, likely hoping for sunflower seeds, but she is all out of treats these days.

Adelaide takes a deep breath and watches Henry and Zelda chase a few small insects, displaced from the woodpile. Moffit sits by Adelaide’s feet, and she bends down to pet the bird. Moffit shivers and Adelaide picks her up, placing her on her lap. She expects the chicken to flutter down, but she does not.

“You know, we have children to think of now,” Adelaide says. “It’s not just about us anymore.”

Henry looks up at her, his plum feathers swirling above his head like a halo. He looks as though he is waiting to hear more, so she continues.

“We’ve had a good run.”

Zelda joins the discussion, shaking her head and scratching her neck. A single feather floats through the air.

“This isn’t easy for me. You need to know that.”

Adelaide rubs her eyelids as if guilt can be detected in her gaze, and just as easily buffed away.

Henry flaps his wings and stretches his neck to the sky, offering a mangled cry to the morning. Adelaide tries to imagine breaking that neck, but she can’t find the strength to reach for him. He returns to the woodpile, searching for more concealed insects.

Adelaide looks down at Moffit.

The hen gazes across the yard, though if she is looking at anything in particular, Adelaide cannot discern. She places her hands on Moffit’s body to warm the trembling bird.

Adelaide wonders if the children are awake. And if so, are they as surprised as she was to find that they had fallen asleep in her bed? Will she enter the cabin only to discover them hidden in their tent, once again hesitant and uneasy?

Adelaide strokes Moffit’s head.

She stares past the garden and into the forest where the fallen snow has settled into the creases of branches like soft white nests.

Her hand moves to Moffit’s neck, massaging beneath her beak with her thumb.

Adelaide closes her eyes and listens to the forest. There is little to hear beyond the sound of Henry and Zelda scratching at the snow, but when she pushes her hearing into the morning, she detects bare branches on the other side of the cabin, creaking in the morning breeze.

She moves her other hand to the top of Moffit’s shoulders.

And as she pushes her hearing even farther, Adelaide believes she can hear sheets of ice creaking and shifting on the surface of the river.

She imagines plunging her body into the cold, and she snaps Moffit’s neck.

She’s done as she must.

But she can do no more today.

The children eat with greedy mouths, their faces flushed and grateful. Adelaide divides her portion among the two emptying plates.

She cannot join them for breakfast this time.

The stench of blood and grease permeates her cabin, and so Adelaide leaves the children to their meal and steps outside.

Adelaide gasps for fresh air, forcing the icy chill into her lungs with rushed breaths that do not satisfy. She doesn’t doubt her decision, but oh, how her heart aches. Her fingers are still slick with chicken fat, and Moffit’s blood stains the creases of her knuckles. She buffs it away as best she can.

There is no such thing as a magnificent death. Everyone, and everything, dies. Adelaide understands this more than most, but it hurts all the same.

She cannot look at Henry and Zelda today—perhaps never again—and Adelaide passes them without so much as a glance or a word as she walks toward the river. She turns at the bank, following the frozen river downstream, to her secret spot. She longs to hear its symphonic eddy once more and hopes that in that deepest part of the river, the water still flows.

The last time she was here, the weather was warmer, and she did not dread a dip in its depths. The leaves were crimson then, the sun bright. There will be no red leaves today, no crown to weave into her bun, and no pills in her pocket. Just an old, gutless woman sitting by a frozen river.

As she approaches, Adelaide is relieved to discover the water still churning and spinning. She sits beneath the barren maple tree, watching the slow rotation of bubbles and ice chips, and tries to calm her quaking fingers. One more day. That’s all she can rely on. She can no longer plan for next week, next month. Only one more day. And even that small task is a burden. Today, at least, she has fed the children. And when River and Little Bird awake tomorrow with rumbling bellies, Adelaide still has two more chickens.

She buries her face in her hands, massages her temples. She presses too hard and will likely bruise, but she does not release. A small consequence for murdering Moffit. She deserves more than a bruise. Some farmer she’s become, in mourning over a goddamn chicken.

Across the river, Adelaide spots motion and looks up to find a small brown hare staring back at her. Its fur is chestnut brown, its belly cream. The rabbit stands on its hind legs, front paws in a V, ears the color of strawberry jam. For a long moment, they regard each other. Eventually, the rabbit deems Adelaide no threat, turns, and hops leisurely into the trees.

There was a time when Adelaide would have hunted it down, dined on bunny stew. But today, all Adelaide can think is: Run, little rabbit. Run fast and far from the likes of me.

Though still early in the day, the sky has darkened, and Adelaide steps carefully over roots and stones on her way back to her cabin. A storm is coming. The air is icy, and the updraft of wind whisks the stark gray branches toward a dampening sky. She’d been too distracted to notice earlier, and Adelaide quickens her pace. She hopes the children won’t be frightened, but then reminds herself that this is likely their first storm for which they will have shelter. A real home. Because of her.

Adelaide smiles when she thinks of the children. Her children. She should not have left them alone for so long. It is not their fault that Moffit is dead. It is not their fault that Adelaide let her cupboards go bare this winter. It is her burden, and hers alone.

As she approaches the cabin, Adelaide spots a car parked in her driveway. The vehicle is empty. No driver, no passengers.

It’s the men. Must be.

And the children are home alone.

Adelaide wrings her hands, trying to decide if she should sneak quietly to a window and assess the situation, or if she should charge down her front door, unleashing a holy hell of wild madness upon the men. If the children have taught her one thing, it is that men are easily spooked by a little bit of crazy. Yes, she thinks as she grabs a fallen tree branch, holding it like a sickle, she, too, can be a beast.

Adelaide leaps forward, charging through the brush. Her cabin grows larger before her, looming, dominating the sky. The tree branch rocks and sways against her shoulder, bruising, cutting, but Adelaide feels nothing. She is an animal now. A fierce protector. A mother bear. Adelaide hollers a battle cry into the sky. She screeches and hoots and turns every noise she’s ever heard in the mountains into a single roar of fury.

Heavy flurries begin to fall, peppering Adelaide with frigid pellets as she flings open her front door, releasing a mighty howl from the depths of her lungs. No words. Just vowels and syllables.

Adelaide crouches low, weapon brandished, teeth bared, knees bloodied.

Feral.

She hears a small child’s cry, though not that of River or Little Bird. Adelaide blinks the snow from her eyes and sees a woman recoiling into the corner of her sofa, comforting a terrified little girl with a yellow ribbon in her blonde ponytail.

Adelaide stands, her mouth slack, her mind empty. The woman stares at her with eyes as threatening as the approaching storm—dark, bewitching, and oh so familiar.

The woman screams at Adelaide, “Dear God, Mother! What’s gotten into you?”